


and Every Muscle Rested (the morning after)

by mufflerCat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-08
Packaged: 2017-11-13 20:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mufflerCat/pseuds/mufflerCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek visits Stiles' first apartment and doesn't leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and Every Muscle Rested (the morning after)

When he gets back he's surprised to find Derek still there. Not a bad surprised, but not exactly a good one either. Because they had sex last night -- and _wow_ , there's definitely a difference between knowing you had sex with the super hot guy you've had a hate-crush on since you were sixteen and acknowledging that you had sex with the _super hot guy you've had a hate-crush on since you were sixteen_ \-- and it was good sex too. The kind of sex he associates with sore muscles and a pleasant ache in his lower back, when the slight limp is worth waking up alone in a bed smelling faintly of a cologne and not so faintly of semen.

Cause the thing is, Stiles had expected Derek to leave. Not that he wanted him to leave, of course. It was just one of those 'seems too good to be true' moments that in his experience, usually were too good to be true.

So sure it was nice to wake up to a warm weight pressed flush against his back, and an arm draped loosely across his waist. But he had had no delusions, it was still dark, and there was still enough time for his bed fellow to sneak out. He was honestly okay with that, he was prepared for it, he's 100% emotionally capable of handling that quiet rejection that comes with the morning after good sex (and nothing else). He would just. He would pretend to be asleep, to spare both of them the awkward conversation that would surely occur if he didn't. Derek could get on with his life, and Stiles could go on with his. That had been the idea, at least.

But as pre-dawn turned to dawn Derek slept on, obvilious to the way he was mangling whatever plans Stiles had come up with to salvage the precarious friendship that had formed between them over the years. The guy didn't even stir when he got out of bed; only scrunched his face in a way that Stiles would forever deny thinking of as adorable, and shifted onto his front to the warm spot Stiles had just vacated. Wasn't Derek suppose to be ever vigilant? Big bad alpha, mister I-can't-trust-anyone, always on the lookout for threats?

(and Stiles, he can't think about what that means, about the possibility of trust implied there, because he'll freak out and ruin it. Whatever _it_ is, he has no fucking clue.)

Stiles then went to the 24/7 convenience store down the block, because he didn't have any milk, because if Derek stayed the night. There's a protocol for that, right? If they don't sneak off at 3am with your wallet?

Right, so he gets milk for coffee. Though he doesn't know how Derek likes his coffee. Does he drink it black? He deffinately has the aspects of a black coffee drinker, with the stubble and all. But you'd think his dad would drink his coffee black too, but he likes that French vanilla stuff that costs six dollars a bottle and however many spoons of Splenda he can get away with that morning.

In the end he gets four different percentages of milk, not counting the carton of cream and the one of half-and-half. He also got a little bottle of French vanilla because Derek doesn't seem like the type of guy who likes fancy coffee, but he also doesn't seem like the type of guy to stay the night and look so comfortable between the sheets in the morning light.

And the more he lets his mind cogitate the more he realizes it's horrible, because he feels like he's preparing himself for the worse. Because he's hoping that Derek left and that they don't have to have the conversation (that ugly _what are we now_ , that fucking _let's pretend it never happened_ ). He was hoping that Derek-freaking-Hale would decide to be a sensible adult for once and take the little window of opportunity Stiles gave him to leave by the actual window.

(like he's in high school again and Derek's staring at his lips and his dad is just downstairs and everything is a unsettling mix of emotion and ammunition.)

He's still there.

Stiles hasn't gotten around to unpacking all the boxes so instead of blinds there's a sheet tacked over the window; the sun shines through it and onto Derek, and he has his head half buried in Stiles' pillow like the light can't exist if he can't see it. The contrast between the werewolf and his mustard colored bedding is insane. He shouldn't look so natural lying there, but in a weird sort of way, he does.

(He looks like he belongs.)

Before he knows it he's across the room, shoes still on and caked in dried mud from last weeks rain storm, and he's dropped the bag full of thirty dollars worth of milk at his feet. Derek's eyes are opening and he's taking in Stiles with his usual faux annoyed look.

"Hey," he says and lips lift into this small half-smirk, because Dereks face is still pressed into the pillow and it makes his gut flutter. "Where'd y'go?"

The way his voice is craggy with sleep, and his smirk. (His smile.) It isn't fair. Stiles wants to kiss it off his lips, he wants to push him until Derek has no choice but to push back. He doesn't want his fingertips to brush the mattress by Dereks arm, and his face to go butter-soft as he replies, "Doesn't matter."

"Hmm..." He doesn't have to say come back to bed because it's obvious in the way he reaches out an arm and brushes against Stiles' hand for second before catching onto his jacket sleeve, giving it a slight tug.

Stiles really could have saved himself a lot of trouble by cutting off that arm when he had the chance. He would have never had to deal with that rough-soft palm smoothing down his side, or the thumb that seems to absentmindedly stroke his cheek, or those fucking fingers with their slack grip on his rib cage. He could pry them off if he wanted, tell Derek to take his underwear and his bed rumbled hair and leave; he could _get away_ , before Derek has a chance to pull him apart at the seams, but.

( _why would he want to?_ )

So he slips off his jeans and the dirty sneakers with them. He lets his jacket fall away and he loses track of his shirt, and the breaths he had been counting. Because Derek is still here and as he shifts to let him in under the covers the sun catches his eyes right then, illuminating the pale hazel in a way that lets Stiles know that he's not leaving anytime soon.

(And in an hour Derek _will_ get up, but it's make them both coffee. He'll bring the mugs into the bedroom where Stiles is half dozing with the comforter shucked off and sleepy smile on his face. The milk will be warm by that point, but that's honestly okay, because one of the cups is drunken black and the other is set on a cardboard box in favour of coffee flavored kisses.)

**Author's Note:**

> Just reposting a fic I wrote on tumblr in response to [this](http://argentourage.tumblr.com/post/31089602063/rubdown-igaer-by-ruben-a-montecino) photo.


End file.
